


Lost Boy in the Dry Cleaners

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean, Clothes, Dry Cleaners, First Job, Flirty Castiel, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Peter Pan References, Shy Dean, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly, Dean would rather be home exercising his fingers through an unhealthy number of fail videos, but it’s a job. On the plus side, he doesn’t have to do the whole small talk thing with customers. They tell him what they need, he gives it to him, and then they leave, no questions asked. </p><p>That is, until he walks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Boy in the Dry Cleaners

 

Saving people’s clothes from questionable stains, hunting for nametags, it’s not exactly the family business.

According to his father, dry cleaning is a healthy alternative from “ _Breaking Bad_ in their backyard” (even though Dean’s only smoked pot once, and that was on a dare—from his little brother, no less! Sammy’s gonna be the son with a substance abuse problem, thank you very much). Unless he found a _High Times_ issue underneath the countless stacks of Playboys (and Play _girls_ ) hidden under Dean’s bed.

Honestly, Dean would rather be home exercising his fingers through an unhealthy number of fail videos, but it’s a job. On the plus side, he doesn’t have to do the whole small talk thing with customers. They tell him what they need, he gives it to him, and then they leave, no questions asked.

Supply and demand. (Or prostitution.)

That is, until _he_ walks in.

He came spiraling in on the hottest day in July like the stringy tornado kicking up all kinds of dirt on top of his scalp. His clothes—which consist of a maroon hoodie, a green short sleeve and long, black khakis—look like they got spit _out_ of said tornado, the way they’re wrinkled and sticking to his lean runner’s body.

He peels off his aviators as he saunters to the counter, and Dean’s met with a twin set of icecaps that could shiver anyone’s timber, not to mention a wide, crumpled mouth that wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a church as he asks, vocal chords deep and raspy, almost like they’re strained from, uh, _supply and demand,_ “How much for a suit?”

“Uh…” And yeah, he could’ve been nicer, but with a voice like that, nice didn’t lubricate his fantasies. “A suit’s, uhm… depends what kind of suit. We do leather, suede—”

“It’s wool. Just your standard tuxedo, Peter Pan, nothing special.”

Dean scoffs, eyes peaking the accordion-like pleats engraved into his forehead, “I’m sorry?”

“No, I’m sorry,” the man relents as he pushes his sunglasses over his bedhead with a sigh, “I’m just a little on edge today. Castiel.”

“We don’t accept checks or cards, cash only. Most tuxedos are made from either wool _or_ polyester, at least that’s what my boss tells me, and he’s pretty set on knowing everything, so the total would come out to—” Dean stops with a terse laugh. “Sorry. I usually do that to get people _out_ of here ASAP.”

The man, Castiel, laughs too, “I’ll try not to take offense.”

“No, no, I mean, not that you’re—it’s just, you’re—” Dean stops himself before saying something really stupid, like _you’re the kind of gorgeous I want packing me tighter than a turducken,_ and lends out his hand. “Dean.” And yeah, okay, Castiel’s hands are super soft. No big deal—until Dean’s lingering, oh God—“So, what’s the, uh, what’s the suit for?”

“Job interview,” Castiel groans. “Roman Industries is hosting a job fair. My friend Charlie is dating Roman’s daughter, so she hooked me up with a meeting—”

“Wait, does this Charlie have the last name Bradbury?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side a little. “Yeah. How do you know her?”

“Please, how do I _not_ know that kid? She’s one of my best friends!”

Castiel nods as the corners of mouth fold up. “Okay, then.”

Dean straps the blush forming faster than most boy bands nowadays to his cheeks as he clears his throat, “Well, hey, good luck with the interview, man. I’ll be happy to iron your suit for you for around twenty bucks.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to give me a discount, I’ll be happy to pay whatever rate—”

“Cas,” Dean says, leaning his weight against counter, which may or may not make his forearms and biceps to look a tad bigger, with an equally generous laugh, “just get some rest and bring in the suit tomorrow, alright? And change into some _clean_ clothes—you’re making us look bad.”

Cas chuckles with a hint of a gummy smile as he heads for the door, “Will do.”

“Oh, and Cas?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you call me Peter Pan?”

Cas just smirks, eyeing him from his crew-cut caramel hair to the hem of his _ACDC_ shirt, and says, “Please, Dean. The only thing missing is the hat and the feather.”

If his father asks when he gets home, his unfading blush is from the swamp cooler. Damn summer.

***

That isn’t the last time he sees Cas.

In fact, the next time Dean sees him, he’s wearing the tuxedo he brought in last week with a navy blue tie that brings out his eyes a like a lighthouse illuminating the murky sea. His hair’s gathered up enough donations from the freak tornado to clean up the borders by his ears, even though the Daisy Sour Cream dollop on top still remains, just slightly less frazzled than before. He’s even clean shaven. The smell of lavender and aftershave trickles through the heat-stricken place as he approaches the counter with practiced grace.

Dean ignores the hitch rising in his throat as he breaths, “Wow. You look good.”

Cas blushes, resembling an inverted penguin. “Thanks. I, uh, I’m here to pick up a dress.”

“Oh? And that’s under _your_ name?” Dean teases, waggling his eyebrows. “Got a hot date today?”

“Well, my twin brother does,” Cas laughs. “It’s his wedding day, so I guess you’d say it’s a hot date.”

“You have a twin brother?”

“I do.”

“Which one am I speaking to right now?”

Cas laughs again, “That would be me, _Castiel_ Novak, the younger, less attractive son.”

 _If only,_ Dean thinks. “Wow,” he says instead, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Dean,” he responds with a slanted smile, shifting his feet. They stare at each other for a perverse amount of time before Cas adds, “Oh, and the pick-up won’t be under my name this time. The dress is for my niece, Claire. Her father’s name is Jimmy. Jimmy Novak, you know, the—”

“Golden child?” Dean finishes as he resurfaces with a long, white dress with plenty of sequins. Cas tilts his head in that same child-like way, but his smile doesn’t falter. Dean laughs, explaining, “Sam, my little brother, he gets the same treatment. He’s a good kid most of the time; don’t get me wrong, but… I don’t know.” Dean pauses, looking at the finger-spotted counter. “It’d just be nice to get the same kind of attention, you know?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I mean I’m the youngest in my family, and it feels like I’ll always be too young for the ‘grown-up’ jokes.”

“Mm, or the ‘grown-up’ table.”

“ _Yes!”_ Cas cries over the mind-numbing drone of the swamp. “The dreaded ‘kiddie table’.”

“At least kids don’t hammer you about when you’re gonna get a job,” Dean points out. “Or a car. Or a girlfriend. Money’s one thing, but the ball’s not really in my court for the latter.”

Cas hums, “Mm, not many options around here, huh?”

“Too _many_ options, I, uh—” Dean ducks his head, feeling a blush of his own creeping to his ears. Yeapp, he totally just came out to a customer—a really _attractive_ customer, nonetheless. When he looks down, he notes he’s still holding the dress in his other hand. “Oh, here, sorry,” he coughs, handing it to Cas. “Normally, for secondhand pick-ups, I would ask you for your ID, but…”

“Yeah,” Cas chuckles, “that would be kind of redundant.”

Dean’s pretty sure a splinter’s wedged in his fingernail from the ratty old counter, but it feels like a pinch compared to Cas’s piercing blue eyes, which still stare unwaveringly into him. “Anyway, uh, I’m probably keeping you. Good luck today. May the Best Man win.”

Cas nods with a small smile. “See you around, _Pan.”_

“Bye,” Dean says a little too late.

_May the Best Man win. Really?!_

***

“ _Appalachian clogging?”_

“It’s a dignified sport!” Cas argues, then, as Dean heads to the back: “Do you know which—?”

“Believe me, I _know,”_ Dean chuckles. “It’s hard to forget a Hansel and Gretel getup.”

“Unfortunately, there’s no Gretel.” Cas’s hands linger with Dean’s on the cool metal part of the hanger. “However, there is a position open for another Hansel.”

There’s a wink. There’s an _actual_ wink after that declaration.

Dean’s mouth is pretty much a safe haven for flies and mosquitos now, the way it hangs open. “Uh… your payment will be processed in approximately a couple days. If you want, we can offer a membership—”

“Bye, Pan,” Cas laughs, slinging his attire over his shoulder as he walks out.

Dean hangs his head over the counter.

***

Cas walks in a few days later—sooner than Dean expects him. Today he’s donning a cotton blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, baring just enough tanned arms, and a pair of black jeans. The aviators are gone, but there’s something tucked behind his left ear. The closer he comes, the more Dean can see the bright, blossoming values in the sunflower. He’s amazed it can withstand such heat. It’s beautiful, symbolically.

“Hey, Cas,” he greets with nothing short of a shy smile, “What’re you picking up today?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, not until he steps up to the counter, plucks the sunflower from his messy hair, and holds it out to Dean with a sloppy grin. “You, Pan.”

 

 


End file.
